


Know the water's sweet, but blood is thicker

by GioseleLouise



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Royalty, Alternate Universe - Human, Enemies to Lovers, Family Bonding, Family Issues, Insecurity, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28486959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GioseleLouise/pseuds/GioseleLouise
Summary: “Seven,” says the man, still facing the ceiling.There’s a pause where Charon studies his familiar profile, the orange scarf that cushions his head like a halo. Charon wants to strangle him with it.“Seven,” the man repeats. He glances at Charon then, frowning slightly. “Number of times I’ve heard a sound from you. Don’t talk much, huh?”--Charon is a merchant, Hermes is a thief. They're both running from the paths their families have laid out for them.
Relationships: Charon/Hermes (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

The air in the jail is stifling, heavy with the fervid exhales of the falsely accused and the stench of prisoners that have given up on living. It wouldn’t take long to give up, here. It’s easy to turn hopeless after months of staring into the dark with nothing but a sewer hole for company.

Charon curls his knees to his chest and curses himself for not listening to his family. Jails in the Underworld aren’t like this. 

_I don't belong here,_ he thinks; aches to write. Yet he can’t. His chalkboard is gone, its loss as dire as a severed limb, and he can't quite stop the backs of his fingers from brushing against his cell's cracked brick floors. Maybe his knuckles will stumble upon its familiar cypress frame, as they have all his life.

That chalkboard was a part of him, _is_ a part of him, ever since Mother gifted it to him as a teenager. He needs it to scream; to help cope with his situation and manage his own suffocating numbness after watching his wares seized. All his precious gemstones, the dried fruits from Queen Persephone’s gardens, trinkets he collected from courts across Greece.

And his obols.

Gods, all his obols. 

His cellmate - _conspirator_ , according to the Titans - shifts onto his back. The man’s lurid orange scarf goes flying to pillow the side that turns to Charon. Ridiculous that he gets to keep such a luxury, but Charon couldn’t hold onto his damn chalkboard.

“I can feel you staring,” the man points out, as casual as a customer at a weekday market. "Feels like daggers, boss. Anyone ever told you that?"

 _Good_ . Charon narrows his eyes and deepens his scowl. _I hate you, thief. If it’s not obvious, I hope you have the sense to recognize it now._

The silence between them stretches as flickering candlelight catches on his cellmate’s features. Brown eyes take Charon in, waiting, and despite how much he detests the man, Charon can’t deny that there’s something oddly familiar about him.

"No? Newsflash: you do. I understand being mad, but I already told you: my father's getting us out.” The man looks to the ceiling. “No point wasting energy sulking. Have a funny feeling we’re only getting one meal today.”

Charon grits his teeth. The man’s father is probably a minor noble from Olympus. Meanwhile, Charon is the son of the Underworld’s archon and a sibling to its magistrates. His family has been serving Underworld royalty for generations. Even so, he wonders if his connections are enough to grant him clemency with the Titans. It’s not like any of the royal families are even on speaking terms.

Charon huffs; a long exhale that does nothing to kill the anxiety bubbling in his gut. Still, it’s better than nothing. Mother will figure it out. Compared to Lord Hades, their family is closer to the Titans’ royalty by a generation or so. Between his family’s blood and his Lord’s connections, that must be enough to save him. 

Gods, it’s not like he can trust this stranger’s father to get him out.

“Seven,” says the man, still facing the ceiling. 

There’s a pause where Charon studies his familiar profile, the orange scarf that cushions his head like a halo. Charon wants to strangle him with it.

“Seven,” the man repeats. He glances at Charon then, frowning slightly. “Number of times I’ve heard a sound from you. Don’t talk much, huh?”

If looks could kill, the man would’ve died last night. Still, Charon glares as he gets up, marches the few steps to cross their pitiful cell, and looms over the man. Charon doesn’t often draw attention to it, but he’s a built guy; tall, with a body that keeps muscle easily. The intimidation factor would’ve served him well when he wanted to be a magistrate, but well...

His cellmate scrambles to sit up. “Gods. Was just joking, boss, don’t-”

Charon motions with his dominant hand. He draws exaggerated characters over the wall then points to the bars, to the guards that patrol the hallways every hour. It’s hard to tell time without sunlight, but Charon has had a lifetime of waiting and watching. He knows.

_Ask for something I can write with, asshole._

At least with a chalkboard or a rolled up parchment, Charon has something to beat this guy with. Minimum, he’ll have a way to tell him to shut up. Charon suspects he’ll have a lot of time for both while trying to explain his situation to the Titans.

But his cellmate just gapes up at him, his astonishment barely visible in flickering candlelight. “What? I don’t-”

Charon sighs. He holds his left palm out flat, then with his right hand gripping a phantom stylus, pantomimes carving letters into a tablet. Under him, the man’s brows furrow. They observe each other, one seeking comprehension and the other waiting for it to dawn. And there’s something there; like an itch he can’t scratch or a word at the tip of his tongue. It’s much easier to notice how familiar this man is now that they’re close.

“Oh, you want-” the man makes a dismissive noise and settles back onto his palms. Relaxed, Charon realizes wryly, like a certain Prince from the Underworld. Perhaps what Charon recognizes is the confidence that accompanies foolish optimism. Seems to be a recurring theme among nobility. “You already tried asking for that. Remember? Last guard dismissed you quite colorfully.”

 _The guards are different today._ Charon draws a circle in the air and gestures towards the bars. Smirking, he looks down through half-lidded eyes and points at him. _Besides, you’re going to ask them._

The man frowns.

Charon crosses his arms, scowls back. _You fucked me. This only reason I'm in this mess is because you hid your stolen goods among my merchandise._ Charon tips his chin towards the bars and steps closer. _Ask. Them._

A tense moment passes. The frown never leaves, but the man's eyes widen, pupils darting to trace the faded scars lining Charon’s face. Charon doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch; just waits with the tempered patience of a man long used to shock and stunned silence.

It’s probably the first time the man’s really seeing him.

Charon holds no illusions about his looks; he’s long accepted the marks that dance across his skin. _Like a broken spider web_ , according to one Olympian. At the time, it was a comment made in poor taste. Another bad joke to console him when he was a grieving teenager. He’s thickened his skin since, and has long come to terms with recognizing it as a kinder description for his scars. Charon waits for the man to reel, for his face to scrunch in sympathy or disgust, but he just keeps looking.

“What’s your name?”

Charon blinks.

“Figure if I'm doing favors, I should know the name of my taskmaster," he says lightly. "Or I could keep calling you Sir Sulky. Have been in my head. Doubt the guards will take my request seriously though." The man grins, casual and easy, "Could try."

Charon rolls his eyes. He draws a letter in the air, but gives up at the sight of the man squinting through the half-light. Charon points to his scarf; holds his palm out.

His cellmate’s hand hesitates over the orange fabric, and for once, something more distressing than mild boredom flashes across his features.

"Ah, maybe...maybe we don't have to use this?"

Charon scoffs and holds his arms out, nails scraping against rusted bars or the rough brick walls of their tiny cell. He throws the man a disbelieving look. _What else could I possibly use?_

There’s a moment of silence. The man bites his lip, stares at Charon as if they could materialize an alternative from sheer willpower. Charon rolls his eyes. _If there was something in the cell I could use, I would’ve done so already, you idiot._

Somewhere down the hall, a prisoner screams for the attention of a guard while the stench of fresh piss fills the air.

Finally, the man sighs, his fingers slowly pulling the fabric from his neck. "Fine. Don't be a jerk, alright? I get it. You hate me, it's all my fault, blah blah, but don't rip it or chuck it through the bars or whatever. If you're gonna spite me, punch me in the face."

Charon would be lying if he denied ever thinking about it. When his fury was at its peak, he imagined snatching the damned thing and tossing it down the sewer. It would make the man suffer; slap the indifference off his face and make him feel something close to the loss and misery Charon was drowning in. 

He also thought about punching the man. Fortunately for him, Charon learned early in his life to not act on anger.

Now he's in awe. The scarf is beautiful. Really beautiful. Softer than swan down, and vibrant even in poor lighting. It’s long too, he notices. Charon's fingers glide over soft fabric, marveling over its quality and length. It's twice the size of the man, at least, with none of the wear that would accompany a fabric of middling quality. A piece like this would have cost a fortune.

The man clears his throat. "Nice, right?" He asks, gaze dark with apprehension. "Believe you needed it for something specific."

Carefully, Charon places the fabric on the ground. He doesn't like the scarf's owner, but he can respect its craftsmanship. He guides the fabric delicately, spells a chi, waits until the man says the letter, then spells an alpha, rho, omega, and finally, nu.

“Cha-ron,” says the man. A near imperceptible pause, then: “I’m Hermes.”

He’s definitely heard that name before. Charon squints, tilts his head. _Have we met?_

“It’s a common name where I’m from,” Hermes mutters. His eyes haven't left the scarf. "Mind if I-"

Quick fingers snatch up the fabric before Hermes finishes his thought. The scarf goes flying from under him and is wound up around Hermes’ hands before Charon can react. Good skills for a thief, Charon observes with a flash of irritation. Hermes is the type of person he’d loathe to run into at a market.

Hermes hugs the scarf to his chest. “Don’t have much, so I’d prefer to keep this close.”

_I can relate to not having much, thanks to you._

There’s no easy way to say it so Charon shrugs; stands, frowning and pointing to the fabric. He can't shake off how vibrant the dye is. It looks like a ball of fire in Hermes’ hands. _Did you steal this too? How did you convince the Titans to let you keep it?_

Charon would never carry something this precious with him; no one at market could afford such a thing. Gods, he doubted if even Zagreus would risk wearing this while traveling. Such a piece would take years to make; a costly commission for a grand achievement. And if the Prince of the Underworld wouldn’t parade it around, what is the minor son of an Olympian noble doing with it?

No. The scarf is stolen, and Hermes is using it to bluff their way out of here. It's stupid. But if he's still hanging onto it, that must mean the Titans bought into the scam. For now.

“Parchment alright, Charon?” Asks Hermes, confident now that his scarf is in his arms. Hermes' smile is back in place, all sharp edges peeking through the darkness, and it makes Charon feel like a mark. 

Stoic, Charon nods and holds his palms a short distance apart, ignores the prickle of distrust that runs up his spine. _I’ll need a lot of it._

"Sure, boss. I'll get you a ton. Be sure to grab the next guard that waltzes past." Hermes wraps a bit of scarf around his neck, then balances the bulk of fabric between his head and the wall and relaxes back like they have all the time in the world. “Poke me if you see someone coming.”

Charon sighs. _I’m not waiting around anymore. I spent all day feeling sorry for myself - and I don’t share your lack of urgency, thief._

A pointed look is the only warning Hermes receives before Charon wraps his hands around the rusted bars and shakes. They don’t break, and he doesn’t expect them to, but he feels the rusted metal catch against brick. The screech is a horrible, grating thing that burns his inner ears, makes him clench his jaw while the hairs on his neck stand on end. 

The dead come alive. Men in the adjacent cell swear for Charon’s bloody death as Charon picks up speed, fighting the wave of discomfort that crawls up his skin.

“Gods, stop that!” Hermes hisses.

Down the hall, another set of bars begins rattling over another set of indignant voices begging for the noise to end. A second later, another set of metal scratches brick and brings another wave of nausea to match. Charon feels like the conductor of Greece’s worst orchestra, and he’d laugh if it didn’t kill his throat.

Hermes is suddenly at his side, stepping into his space and wrapping a warm hand over his wrist. “Quit it. Guards won’t help us if they hate our guts.” Hermes’ tightens his grip, but Charon shrugs him off. “Damn it, that’s irritating. I’ll get your parchment, just stop-”

“Gods, what is happening down here? Everyone shut the fuck up and stop shaking their damn bars. Calm down, you.”

Smiling, Charon steps backwards until his back hits brick, clothes catching on rough surfaces. He tips his chin towards the light approaching their cell and fixes Hermes with a smirk that feels like pure victory.

_My parchment. Now._

“Hermes?”

To his credit, his cellmate doesn't flinch. When Hermes turns to the guard, he stands a little taller, raises his voice a little louder, and projects an authority that screams _nobleman._

“Just the man we were looking for. We'll need something to write with, good sir. My cellmate over here was denied the appropriate means of communicating. Perhaps some parchment and ink? Twenty pieces should do; papyrus is fine. It’s fine, right Charon?”

The titan’s expression is stone cold, features shadowed by the hand holding his lantern up to the bars. “We received word from your father-”

“Excellent.” Hermes flips a length of fabric over his shoulder, grinning with easy confidence. "I knew this would all be cleared up. Shall we be escorted to the border of Olympus? Or the Underworld?"

“-and he insists that you and your associate are to serve your sentence. The crimes you’ve committed against the crown are quite severe and he’s acknowledged that the appropriate punishment is best set by the offended party.”

The guard smiles then, or perhaps it's a trick of the light, shadows flickering as he holds his lantern to the left to guide his path.

Charon is acutely aware of his cellmate melting; confidence sliding off his shoulders like mud in the rain. Hermes’ gapes after the guard as something very close to horror settles over his face.

Charon can relate. One day late, but his cellmate finally understands just how screwed they are. He’s in for a rough twelve hours. Casually, Charon gestures towards the guard, too amused to hide his grin. _You didn’t get my parchment._

But Hermes isn’t looking at him; neither is the guard as he walks on and yells, "Your trial will be held five months from today. Both of your punishments shall be determined then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Having a ton of fun with this AU and got some cute ideas for these two. The rating will absolutely change & I'll be giving a huge heads up when that happens haha.
> 
> Many thanks to Didi for her feedback and endless support! Thank you to Wendy for her kind words and for taking a look at this monster!
> 
> Come say hi @ giosele.tumblr.com - Thrivin' on prompts and feedback.


	2. Chapter 2

The words ring through him.

It’s a mistake, surely, because the guard went to fetch Charon’s parchment and returned with empty hands and a senseless message. Clearly, this is meant for someone else's ears.

“There was a scheduling error,” repeats the Titan. “Your trials are in ten months, not five.”

The lantern swings as he lifts it to chin-level, and Charon catches apprehension pinching the guard’s eyes, his lips ghosting the smallest “My Apologies,” before he turns away.

 _Wait_ , Charon aches to say. _Come back, this has to be a mistake_.

What comes out is a scratchy noise that kills his throat, the bars rattling as he lunges forward to grasp them.

Charon is so used to others’ unease; he should know better. People look at him and they see a tall, scarred man built like a warrior and silent save for the scratch of chalk against slate. Others draw in on themselves when they see him, and he’s learned how to chip at their misconceptions. He knows he needs to smile and wait. He knows to let others digest his family’s name and his Lord’s colors, to let their gazes wander and their shoulders untense before making any moves.

The flash of fear across the other man’s features is shameful. Charon gasps, gut churning with guilt, and immediately releases the bars and holds his palms up.

 _Sorry, I’m so sorry_ , he wants to write. He traces letters into the air and draws a rectangle with a pointer finger - _Please, get me some parchment so we can talk. This must be a misunderstanding -_ but the guard is already scurrying away, swearing under his breath, and carrying Charon’s hopes with him.

Regret washes over him in the silence that follows. He could have handled that better - he can’t forget to think before acting. If he was careful, he could be explaining his innocence to his jailors. Maybe he’d already be drafting a letter to mother. 

What’s happening to him? 

Desperation was a tool he once wielded well, an ally he’s heaved on enemies before fixing them with a cold-eyed stare. Now he’s on the receiving end and he’s losing it.

Suddenly, Hermes shifts from where he’s leaning against the wall, reminding Charon that someone else witnessed that pitiful interaction - and that someone is watching his pathetic descent into self-pity.

“Alright, time for a change of plans,” Hermes starts. 

Charon throws him an incredulous look - _What the hell are you talking about? -_ which the man ignores by crossing his arms and raising his chin defiantly, “We’re getting out of here. Your idea is shot, so we’re doing this the Hermes way.”

They’re not doing this the Hermes way. They’re not doing _anything_ the Hermes way. Charon refuses. He tells the man as much by turning his back, and Hermes laughs.

“Plan is to keep waiting, huh, boss? Hope you realized by now that they’re never gonna give you anything to write with. They’re definitely not letting you write to your family.”

Charon squares his shoulders and lets the words wash off him. He’s heard crueler things before. This is nothing.

“Ten months will turn to fifteen, then that will turn to twenty, you’ll see. Play by their rules and you’ll be an old man before you stand trial.” Hermes pauses, considering. “If you even _get_ a chance to stand trial. They might just keep us here forever.”

Charon walks to his end of the cell and shuts his eyes, sick of looking at Hermes and his stupid smirk. The thief is wrong.

Their jails are terrible, but the Titans at least don’t torture their prisoners. They have laws, and due process, and trials where the accused can plead their case. Charon can confidently argue his innocence to a judge, but he won’t have to. The last guard understood him well enough; he knows he’ll have something to write with by tomorrow, and Hermes’ words will be nothing more than the ramblings of a madman doomed to a long trial and a longer sentence.

This isn't Charon’s fate. He only needs a bit of parchment to prove it.

\---

The Titans give Charon bland, colorless food, and a wafer-thin chiton. They give him time in the shadowless patch of dirt they call a courtyard, and Charon deals with the summer heat for a chance at fresh air and sunlight.

They never give him anything to write with, nor do they give him a chance to explain. For a week, Hermes gives him pointed smirks and “I told you so’s”, because the Titans don’t give him a reprieve from his cell mate either. 

The one thing they do give him is time. Ten months turns to twelve and twelve turns to eighteen. By week's end, Charon’s panic is a heavy weight in his chest, and each morning he wakes up, it grows heavier and more suffocating. Every day of silence is another opportunity to take more of his time. He's desperate, and he signs and gestures to any guard that looks in his direction, but they avoid eye contact and give him a wide berth. They whisper about him, sometimes. Thinking he’s deaf and mute, he overhears them talk about him like he’s crazy. Reducing his attempts at communicating to erratic flailing.

No one treats him like this. No one dared when he was at his Lord’s court, and even when he went off to travel alone; a big, silent man hiding his scars under more fabric than was sensible, people at least tried to understand him. This is the lowest he’s been, and after a few days of neglect, he’s already losing his mind. 

It takes a week for someone besides the thief to reach out to him. Charon is sun-fried and sweating when he hears it. A whistle from across the hallway.

"Hey. Crazyman, why’d they let you out?" 

Charon glances at his cellmate. They’re still breathing heavily, wiping sweat with their threadbare chitons and trying to cool off in the dark of their cells. It’s not much colder, but it’s something. 

Sluggishly, Charon cocks his head. _Do you hear that?_

“Yoohoo, Crazyman.” 

Hermes shifts from where he’s sitting, his scarf loose around his shoulders after melting in the courtyard. “Think our neighbor’s talking to you, boss.”

Charon walks to the edge of their cell, and he can’t make out the speaker’s features, but he feels the man’s gaze through the dim light. 

“You guys got some pull with the guards? Some folks here were dark for months, but you and Scarfy get courtyard rights after a week?”

Hermes snorts. “Scarfy,” he repeats disparagingly.

Charon shrugs. Who knows why the Titans do what they do? It’s not like they’ll answer him if he asks. 

He turns back, then the man adds, “You know, you’re not so big.”

 _What?_ Charon whirls around, making a face, and the man suddenly presses against the bars of his cell, visible, and - Charon can’t help it, he laughs. It’s a scratchy, broken sound, and it kills his throat, but it’s the most amused he’s been since he arrived.

The other prisoner isn’t much bigger than him. He’s taller by a few inches, if that, but emaciated and matted with enough dirt and grime to blend in with the cell’s floors. The prisoner’s expression twists at Charon’s reaction.

“Watch it, Crazyman. Don’t want to be making enemies here. Not here, no. Accidents happen easy here, especially if you don’t have any friendly neighbors watching your back.”

 _Keep your threats to yourself, I won’t be here for much longer_ , Charon wants to say, but even in his head, the words ring with foreboding. He’s banking on his lot changing, because there’s no conceivable way he could spend eighteen months waiting for an opportunity to act, but with the way the guards have been treating him...

He sighs as he settles against the brick and Hermes’ gaze catches his, cat-like in the dim light. 

“Having fun making friends? Or are you finally ready to try things my way?”

Charon closes his eyes.

\---

The noon-day sun is sweltering. Every few minutes, sweat trickles from his scalp down his bare skin, reminding him of the poor fit of his prisoner’s chiton. His hair sticks to his skin in itchy clumps, and when it gets unbearable, Charon balls his hair and tries to balance it between his head and the wall for as long as possible. Thanatos and Megaera made living with long hair look so easy. He remembers half-listening to their advice, filing it away as something to bring up later.

Now, he’d kill to speak to them. 

It’s a want that hums under his skin, something he has lived with long before he ended up in prison. Now, knowing it may be ages until he sees them, the desire to see his family has turned to something sharp and suffocating.

He’s steaming in the heat, marinating in his own sweat and desperation, and despite it, he tries to find peace. What else can he do?

Meditating typically calms him during courtyard time. It’s soothing knowing nothing but the orange glow of his eyelids and the sound of people milling around the courtyard. Pointless conversation lulls around him like white noise. In the distance, hooves beat against stone as people come and go. He can almost pretend he’s elsewhere.

“Hey, boss.” 

Charon sighs. When he flicks one eye open, Hermes greets him with a smile. His bright orange scarf rests loosely over his head and shoulders, catching the sunlight beautifully.

“Notice you keep avoiding me during courtyard time,” Hermes points out.

_I made it clear I don’t want you anywhere near me._

If Hermes picks up the sentiment from Charon’s glare, he doesn’t show it.

“You could at least hear me out, you know. What do you have to lose? Besides, I guess, your quiet time, but I have a feeling that you have that in spades.”

Charon rolls his eyes and peels himself off the wall. Aimless, he walks away from the thief, grimacing at the heat that permeates through the thin leather sandals the Titans had given him.

A moment later, Hermes falls into step. His scarf flows behind him like a streak of fire.

“C’mon, I’ll distract you. You’re like a giant sulking bear languishing in the sun, you know. Lemme take your mind off the new verdict - it’s twenty months now, right? Right. You know, not to say I told you so, but...told ‘ya so.”

 _Go away, you’re ruining my me-time._ Charon gestures towards the courtyard’s double doors and makes a shoo-motion with his hand. _Talk to me when we’re stuck with each other. Gods know you won’t quit reminding me how long I’m stuck in this dump._

Hermes wrinkles his nose. “No can do, boss. Courtyard time’s the best time to chat about these things, you see. Everyone’s too fried out of their minds to eavesdrop, and I’m afraid we have too many nosy folks back at the cell. Your new friend, for one, won’t keep his trap shut after he hears what I have to say.”

Charon stops in place with a pointed look and a dramatic sigh. He’s done with this conversation, and he crosses his arms, waiting in the punishing heat for Hermes to continue. _Let’s get this over with. The sooner you get what you want, the sooner you can leave me alone. What else do you want from my life? More time? Sure. You’re already trying to take twenty months from my life. Why not take this too?_

There’s a pause where Hermes studies him, thoughtful. “Man, you look scary when you glare like that.”

Charon squints.

“Anyway…” Hermes clears his throat. “Do you hear that? In the background? Listen.”

Hermes leans in, expression dead-serious, and Charon gets hit with the sudden, shattering realization that his cellmate, the thief that wasted two weeks of his life, is either insane or is carrying out the stupidest prank of his life.

“Hear the horses?” Hermes asks after a moment. The scarf slides down his sweat-damp hair as he peers up at Charon, serious. “That’s our way out. We take their horses. The walkway to the stables is between the cells to the courtyard. We just need a window where the guards aren’t looking. Plus, we need to get out of our cell, but I can take care of that. You know, being a master pickpocket and all.”

Charon shrugs. _I could’ve told you about the horses, it’s not like we’ll get far on foot._ He chides himself for playing along and shakes his head. _Regardless, I’m not going anywhere with you. Gods, even if I agreed to a plan, you’re probably going to get us caught._

Done with this ridiculous conversation, Charon marches towards the wall. Hermes, apparently, doesn't get the message, and jogs to keep up with Charon’s long strides.

“You have another idea?” Hermes whispers. “For getting the key, that is? Or finding a window of opportunity? I’m thinking at night, right? The rotation thins out and it’ll be harder for them to spot us. We just gotta be sneaky.”

Charon makes a dismissive noise. _Steal your key and make a fool of yourself, thief. Just keep me out of it._ Charon glances down at his cellmate, glaring, then-

He feels it more than sees it: a presence racing towards them, a shift in the air, and a flash of metal and motion. Tension coils in the air like lightning before a strike, and Charon moves without thinking. Instinctively, he pushes Hermes, and the thief yelps, wraps a firm hand around Charon’s arm and brings them both down.

Hermes is flat on his back, brown eyes wide and inches from his. “What-what are you doing?”

“Saving your-” Charon’s throat collapses on the last syllable, and he chokes around it, slaps a hand to his neck to soothe the white-hot pain crackling through his throat. Something collides hard against his shin, and Charon’s already gasping; he can’t groan around the spike of pain or sudden weight that slams over his legs.

“Ow,” moans Hermes.

Charon’s palms burn against the hot, scratchy dirt, but he breathes through the heat and the ache in his throat and quickly pushes himself to his feet. Halfway up, four hands wrap around his shoulders and yank him up.

“What have you done, thief? You’ll have your courtyard privileges revoked for this.”

 _Let go of me_. Charon jerks away, but their grip is vice-like. They wrench his hands behind him and pull him backwards. Charon overbalances and fights against them, wheezing, and that’s when he sees it. 

A body sprawled across Hermes’ legs. Blood radiates from the man’s torso, staining the cracked, dry dirt around him. The tip of something sharp and shiny erupts from the man’s back and catches the sunlight.

A few feet away, the prisoner with the matted hair drops to his knees. “Oh Gods, Crazyman killed my cellmate,” he wails.

“What?” Hermes is a cloud of blinding gold with his scarf settled around him. Indignation breaks through his stunned silence, and he gestures towards the body with both arms. “We did nothing, that man was obviously coming for us! Gods, why are you just standing there, someone help this guy-”

“No, I saw him. Crazyman wanted to kill-”

 _Stop calling me that._ Charon lurches forward, glaring at the prisoner, and several voices roar behind him. 

One man - a guard - exclaims, “Gods, what happened here? This is turning into a farce - someone stop that man right now.”

Pain spikes across Charon’s temple. It's as sharp and blinding as a strike of lightning, and the world turns black.

\---

Charon wakes in a bed as soft as down. His sheets smell faintly like pomegranates and honey roasted grapes. Of course they would; it's summer. He can tell from the heat simmering in the air and the layer of sweat on his neck. This time of year, everything in the house smells like Queen Persephone's garden and Prince Zagreus' favorite snack.

 _I’m home,_ he realizes. He’s in his bed in the Underworld Palace, and it was all a nightmare. Eyes closed, Charon grins. He’ll stay for the summer this year. He’ll forgo the profits of mid-year festivals, and he’ll spend his days sparring with his family and waste his nights drinking and lulling around their late dinners. This nightmare was a sign - clearly he’s been working too hard, and it’s time to appreciate the finer things in life.

Charon pushes himself up, but loses the motion as his head splits open. He yelps and slides back down, breathing hard against the sharp ache behind his temple. Someone close to him gasps and wraps their hand around his shoulders.

“You’re awake.” The voice cracks with relief. It’s familiar in the worst way.

_No, no, no…_

His heart sinks as he opens his eyes and catches cracked brick ceilings and a familiar face. Hermes hovers over him, watching him with weary eyes. “Gods, boss, I’ve never been happier to see you glaring. How are you feeling? Do you...do you know who you are?”

Charon nods, but that hurts too, so he hums and ignores how dry his throat feels.

“Relax,” Hermes whispers, gentle. “They uhm, they hit you pretty hard. You scared me for a while. I was pretty worried you were never gonna wake up.”

Soft hands guide Charon back onto the sheets. He shifts against them, trying to get comfortable, and realizes - they’re not sheets. His trembling fingers wrap around the familiar fabric and bring it to his face. The golden scarf is under him, and he feels a thin layer separating his calves from the rough brick floor. The bulk of it is wrapped around his neck, cradling his head like a pillow.

His eyes flicker to Hermes’. _You took care of me?_

Hermes meets his stare with a small smile. “I owe you one for saving my life,” he whispers. “I would’ve had a knife to the gut if you hadn’t pushed me outta the way. Thanks, by the way.”

Charon shrugs. He's so tired. It hurts to look around, and it hurts to move, so Charon closes his eyes and tilts his head towards the soft fabric, chasing the faint smell of pomegranates and honey. _Home._

Hermes’ hand tightens on his shoulder. “Hey, hate to have to do this so quickly, boss, but we need to leave. Tonight. Do you understand?”

Charon blinks up at him. _What? Why are you whispering?_

“Our lovely neighbors tried to teach us a lesson this afternoon. Guess they weren’t a fan of you laughing in their faces, who would’ve guessed?”

Hermes pulls something out of his chiton and holds it between them. Charon doesn’t bother craning his neck to look.

“They’re never going to let you go, you know. Not after today. No matter what we say, the guards are gonna see today as an attack, and you can say goodbye to getting out on moral behavior or having that ridiculous trial date pushed sooner. The other guys in here aren’t letting you walk away from showing them up, either. They’ll try to send another message, and they’ll make sure it sticks this time.”

Today’s events come back to him in chunks. Charon remembers the heat. He remembers Hermes’ rambling about horses. He remembers the flash of motion and pushing the thief to the ground, and another body bleeding out next to them. He remembers pain.

Hermes brings his palm closer, and Charon somehow knows what’s in the man’s hand without looking. “You’re going to die here, boss. You’ll die here unless we do things my way.”

_No. The Titans wouldn’t…_

Charon loses his lie in a flurry of motion. Hermes scrambles up and seconds later, Charon hears a _click_ and the creak of their cell doors opening.

 _Stop. Let’s talk about this._ _We can’t just..._ His words come out in a strangled moan, and an aborted gesture. Hermes, apparently, takes the weak way Charon swings his hand out as agreement, because he latches on to Charon’s forearm and cradles his arm behind Charon’s back.

“We need to move now,” Hermes whispers. “You’ve been out for a while - it’s the graveyard shift. No one’s gonna patrol for another twenty minutes.” He pulls Charon to his feet, and Charon’s world spins as he tries to find purchase. The soft, orange scarf stays wrapped around head and he rests against it, listing in that direction.

Hermes groans and keeps them upright. “Gods, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to carry dead weight, but with the state you’re in, I doubt you’ll be much help, huh. Well, just uh, try not to make much noise. We gotta be sneaky.”

Charon’s vision swims as they push into the hallway. It's too much, too soon, and Charon's legs stumble as Hermes drags him forward. He squeezes his lids shut, pillows his head into the soft, scented scarf, and tries to breathe through the dizziness.

 _Can we take a break?_ _Please. My head is killing me._

Hermes is relentless, and he pulls them forward. Charon isn’t sure if they’re rounding turns or if his head is just turning the world upside down - only that they keep moving and if he stops walking, it’ll be impossible to get back up again.

Eventually, Charon feels cool air. Hermes mutters something reassuring and pulls them faster. The dizziness gets worse with each step. He can’t find his footing, and Charon cries out as his toes catch on an uneven brick and Hermes drags him through it.

“Gods, who’s there? Hey- it’s the guys that killed Aesop - guards, guards, someone get them! Help!”

Hermes swears, and they somehow move even faster. “Keep up, keep up. Please, I need you to keep up,” says the thief.

 _I can’t,_ Charon thinks desperately. All his weight is on the man dragging him, and it would feel so good to stop and let the world stop spinning for one moment. _Just...leave me here. Please. I can’t._

The world turns and turns and Hermes ignores his pleas, practically carrying them forward. Voices scream in the distance and there are footsteps coming towards them, people shouting orders. Charon feels like he’s floating on a boat that won’t stop rocking, and it’s effort to breathe through it, and to keep himself from retching. Maybe that’s where he is. He’s on a boat that’s about to sink and he’s dying. Maybe this is just another nightmare.

“Up,” says a desperate voice. “Fuck, climb up, you brooding asshole. Need you to keep it together for two more minutes.”

Something neighs and something clicks. Charon’s hands are pulled forward, and the small, still-functioning part of himself recognizes the coat of a horse and kicks into auto-pilot. He steps into the stirrups and hoists himself over the animal - it’s been awhile but his body still remembers how to mount a horse. It’s the only thing he can handle, because as soon as he’s on the saddle, he lists backwards. A hand grips his and pulls him forward, wrapping his arm around something firm and hot.

Charon slumps forward and groans into a hard shoulder as the animal moves in earnest. _Gods, this is so much worse,_ he thinks, as it trots forward. _Let it be over already. Is this what dying feels like?_

More people scream at them, louder and harsher. A familiar voice swears in his ear. “It may be too much with both of us on. We’re too heavy.”

It’s the last thing Charon hears before he falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Big, big, big thank you to Didi and Wendy for taking a look at this <3  
> Feedback is much appreciated! <3 Come say hi @ giosele.tumblr.com


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